


Dreams

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Dreams, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Loss, Love, M/M, Master/Servant, Melkor has his own ways of rewarding Maiar, Melkor/Thuringwethil, Mourning, Punishment, Sex, Soul Bond, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vala/maia, Vampirism, Yearning, also font changes, angbang, too many adjectives, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: Some say that Irmo Lórien’s webs are stronger even than those of Ungoliant. Melkor was always wary of him, but his Maiar were sometimes caught.This is the story of the times when Mairon was dreaming, and of the times he was not.You get to decide which is which.





	Dreams

**Utumno**

Light, bright and painful like polished steel swords, coming towards him. He turns and runs, hunted by a terrible, irrational fear. He can feel it coming behind him, its reeking breath on the back of his neck. He runs as fast as he can, his heart pumping insanely in his chest, but his feet are leaden. The monster is coming. It would swallow him whole and there is nothing he can do about it. His fires are dimmed to mere impotent embers. He tries to open his mouth to scream for help, but nothing comes out. Behind him the beast howls like an army of warriors. The light is almost on him. The monster leaps, landing on his back and hurling him onto the ground. He is buried under a wave of panic and is strangled –

Mairon awoke with a start and the monster was _right on top of him_. The most terrible monster the world has ever seen was pinning him down as he thrashed, its pale eyes glimmering in the dark.

Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

“You were dreaming,” accused Melkor. “Again. What did I tell you about guarding your mind against Irmo?”

“I apologize, Master.” Mairon managed to utter before relief flooded him. The room was dark, soothing. Even the Vala’s sharp reprimand could not take that away. He rubbed his cheek where he had slapped him awake.

“Apologizing is not enough. Leaving your mind open to attacks is a serious breach of security. I would not have the damnable lot spy on my secrets through my own Lieutenant.”

Mairon stared up at him, a strange silence in his heart. In this silence even the shame of displeasing that he was sure to feel under any other circumstances was lost: withstanding an attack by a Vala was not something a Maia could easily do, even from such a distance and by a relatively weak Vala such as Irmo, but neither Melkor nor Mairon were accustomed to accept excuses. He failed, and that was it. He didn’t much care, though. No matter what horrible punishment his Lord might device for him, anything by his hand was better than the light the Valar sent out to torment him.

But then Melkor sighed and rolled off of him.

“I’ll deal with you later.” He said, pulling on his robes and running his hand in his unruly hair. Mairon followed suit, slipping into his uniform and making sure he was presentable. The nightmare still clung to the periphery of his mind, like a leech feeding off a sheep’s blood. Mairon was no sheep, though. And wolves rarely let leeches stick.

Melkor left the room and Mairon padded after him, disappearing into the shadows of Utumno.

 

**Angband**

The stone floor of the mining tunnel was hard and cold but Mairon – no longer a Lieutenant, no longer a favorite – could barely feel it over the howl of hunger in his soul. He was chained, arms stretched painfully up and the heavy iron collar around his neck fastened to a ring in the wall. This is how he spent the few hours each day when he wasn’t shattering rock. He didn’t want this – the Elven and Human slaves needed rest, but he would gladly trade those gray stretches he spent in misery for good, useful labor. It wrecked his starved body and depleted his energy, but at least he wasn’t thinking.

As always in this deep place, his will was denied.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in the mines, months or years or centuries. Nobody spoke to him, and he could see that they were instructed not to. His Lord was still angry at him about the loss of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Time would not give him any reprieve: Lord Melkor never, ever forgave anyone for anything.

Lord Melkor… Mairon flinched as the pang pierced his heart, cold and dry as a desert. He tried not to think about him too much, too often. But sometimes when he was especially tired, or the darkness around him whispered just so – he lost all control and gave in to gluttony, ruminating on memories both of the mind and of the muscle. But like every beggar’s feast, this, too, was made of smoke and mirrors, dust and tall, impregnable walls he tried in vain to climb. There was no warmth in the memory-ghost’s flitting touch, and a Maia’s soul could never reproduce the fires of Gehenna which were the Vala’s essence, no more than a single flute could imitate a magnificent symphony. The attempt exhausted him, his body gave slowly up. There was just so much anguish he could take. Mairon stopped struggling and let sleep creep in. But it wasn’t the sweet gift of Estë that took him – it was a sudden, convulsive thing, blank and empty as the Abyss.

Darkness, thick and sweet as blood. Soft fingers on his face. His name.

The pain was gone. His body wanted to savor this feeling, so foreign now. The touch was just like _his_ , when he still wanted him near, when he still…

The fingers were insistent, his name drifted up again. A dream, then. He hasn’t dreamt in centuries. He was forbidden to, but right now he didn’t care.

“I don’t want to wake up,” he murmured, recoiling from the probing that stuck to him and pried his mind loose. “I like this dream. I don’t _want_ to wake up.”

“Mairon!”

Mairon started from sleep. His face was held tight between long, strong fingers. His frightened eyes peered straight into his master’s pale face. The Vala’s hands slid from his cheeks to remove the handcuffs and break the ring which bound the collar to the wall. He produced a chain from his sleeve and attached it to Mairon’s collar.

The next thing Mairon knew, he was sweeping through the corridors of Angband behind the tall shadow of his master. He tripped often, but the tug on his collar kept him from falling. At last they reached the throne hall, where the chain was fastened to the entertainment pole and his master left his side to sit upon his throne. Mairon’s hands moved around the coarse, bloodstained surface at his back. Perhaps now some of the blood covering it would be his. He turned his mind away from it and tried to focus on what was before him.

Many creatures were assembled in the hall, Orcs and Maiar and other fell shapes of horror. Mairon’s eyes swept upon their jeering, growling forms, painfully aware of their enmity and his exposed helplessness. As always, his eyes were drawn to the brilliance of the Vala under his dented crown, but now they caught on the being crouching so close to the throne that her wings touched his Lord’s side: Thuringwethil.

Thuringwethil, his chief assistant on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, his herald and his friend. His heart sunk as he remembered how he didn’t even try to save her when that dreadful mongrel came with her beast, bringing the tower down on their heads and putting him to shame. In that dim light all her features were revealed in stark contrast, and it was as if Mairon has never seen her before: the lovely Elven-like face was marred by insectile, black eyes, and by a mouth filled with far too many sharp teeth. Her naked body was all perfect curves and glistening skin that grew into a black fur towards her calves and feet. Her iron-shod talons creaked on the floor as she tried in vain to get to him, stopped only by the Vala’s restraining fist wrapped in her hair. Her expression was murderous.

“Mairon,” Melkor’s words sounded hollow, echoing. Had he heard them before? When? “You are accused of high treason. You are a failure and a disgrace. For that you must be punished.”

But I am already being punished, he said, or perhaps thought, knowing his Lord could hear him. I slave away at the mines for you, my bones barely healed then broken again. I think about you obsessively, as I always have, but now without hope for I know you will never forgive me. I dwindle and I hurt and I suffer. Isn’t that enough?

The Vala smiled a thin, economical smile, and tugged on the Vampire’s ear. “Do you agree with your sibling, Maia?”

“No,” she growled, straining against his hold. “He must pay, Master. Just this once, he must pay for what he did to me!”

“Very well. And what must he pay with?”

Mairon didn’t need to hear her reply. Melkor shrugged one shoulder and released her.

“Feed.”

And the Vampire lunged.

No, he tried to think as teeth tore his throat again, filling his lungs with blood. You were ruined. You could not take flesh again so quickly, so wholly. That could not be. That could not -- **you were never punished like the rest of us,** Thuringwethil’s thought pushed into his and silenced him. **You were always his pet, but no more. Now I’ll see to it that’s you’ll get your due.**

Both Maiar fell quiet as the Vala knelt on the floor beside them, looking at Mairon and stroking the Vampire as she drank him dry. Suddenly she gasped and her eyes filled with a bestial pleasure. Melkor’s face remained icy, but Mairon understood – for was not carnal pleasure, of various forms, the reward Maiar got for cruelty? That was one of Melkor’s training

(breaking, conditioning, brain-wash – no!)

methods from the start, and it stuck deep. He tried to reach for his master’s free hand for comfort, but couldn’t get to it with the other Maia squatting on top of him. She was moaning louder and louder between bites and licks. Mairon’s eyes were starting to dim.

“Enough,” Melkor said, pulling Thuringwethil’s head back from his throat, and Mairon saw her blood-filled mouth drop open in a scream of ecstasy. Then the hall swung around him in a blurry of cheering and pain and finally, finally, disappeared into darkness, thick and sweet as blood.

 

**Mordor**

Light, bright and painful, gleaming off polished steel swords when the clouds break apart above his head, coming towards him. He turns and runs, hunted by the loathsome army of the Valar. He can feel it coming behind him, its reeking breath on the back of his neck. He runs as fast as he can, his heart pumping insanely in his chest, but his feet are leaden. They are coming. They swallowed up his master whole and there was nothing he could do about it, as Melkor – the beloved, the adored Melkor – forcibly removed him from his presence and wouldn’t let him die for him as he begged, dimming his fires to mere impotent embers. He sobs as he is overtaken, hurled onto the ground and chained. Above him the warriors howl in victory. He is buried under a wave of panic and is strangled –

Lord Sauron awoke with a start, grabbing the sill of his window. How did he ever fall asleep? He stopped sleeping millennia ago, not caring anymore about the ugly wreck his physical body had become. He couldn’t see any reason to stop his vigil over the lands. Suddenly he tensed: he shouldn’t have been sleeping, but that was not important. The important thing was that something woke him up. Something happened to the world while he was asleep, and now it crept up behind his back. Whatever it was, it was huge.

He turned with a snarl and his heart stopped.

One of Irmo’s faceless Maiar, he thought as his knees gave way, dressing up in forms and faces for a carnival in its victim’s mind. A torturous phantom sent by a cruel master to fight him. They haven’t disturbed him in ages, not after what he did to that last one. And never like this.

For at the entrance to his Tower hall stood the perfect image of his Lord. It looked exactly the same as he was before he was taken from him… no. not even that. He looked as he did before he was first captured, before the Silmarils stole his mind and enslaved his body. He was naked, shining power like a dark sun, and he _smiled_.

“Mairon.” Even his voice was the same, deep and rich with promise. How did the creature manage to do that? Sauron tried, he tried, but he could never mimic Melkor’s voice. He could never whisper like Melkor to comfort himself when living became too great a burden and all his hard work was lost in yet another flood. Melkor’s voice wasn’t just air moving around, like the voices of the Incarnates or even Maiar, it was Song made manifest. But apparently this particular chameleon could do it.

This was too much. This was blasphemy of the highest degree.

“How dare you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He propped himself up against the wall, summoning whatever remained of his power. His maimed hands burst into flames, weak and miserable but still dangerous. “How _dare_ you wear his face, you who are not worthy to kiss the dust beneath his feet?”

The thing took a step towards him, careless of his wrath. He hurled his fire at it, letting all his pain and anger fuel it. There was a loud bang as the fire ball exploded, engulfing the thing, but then it just stepped through it, unhurt. Its arms were spread wide.

“Mairon. It’s me. I’m back.”

“Stop it, stop it,” panicking when the thing was not deterred, Sauron fought with everything he had, but to no avail. How strong was it? Irmo’s puppets were not known for their brawn, but either Sauron’s own strength deteriorated to a new low, or the thing was uncommonly strong. The creature caught him effortlessly, pinning his arms to his sides, and pulled him kicking and screaming down to the floor with it.

It took some time until Sauron understood that was embraced. He knew that it was a lie, but he hadn’t felt this good for over six thousand years. He was still trying to struggle, but the hold on him was too strong. And it felt just like him! A shameful whimper fled from his mouth. But then his captor’s soul shifted and the Music started, and then there were no more doubts.

No other being could do this save Eru Himself, and He could not be here. Sauron wept as the Music surrounded him, opened him, and caressed him with its fire. That must be Melkor, that was his beloved master.

“My Lord! Is that… is that really you? How…”

“It is me, my precious, my darling,” Melkor smiled at his astonished face. “My love.”

“What…” Sauron was dizzy, overcome. It was unreal. It was impossible. But it was the truth. He faltered for a moment, and then spread out his soul for Melkor, a Maia’s highest act of love and submission. And Melkor gladly accepted it.

But then he pushed him away, eyeing him with anger.

“What have you done to yourself?!” his words were as sharp as a slap. “You’ve maimed your soul. Why did you do it?”

Sauron hung his head. “You were gone for a very long time, Master. I had to survive alone somehow.”

“But that is not the way I taught you to survive without me,” He accused. “You only did it to get more control than you would have otherwise had. Were you trying to copy me? You are not a Vala, Mairon, and you will never be one. No wonder you’re in the shape you are.”

Painfully aware that he did not look like he did back in the days when he was still Mairon, his Lord’s favorite, Sauron mentally surveyed himself: his gangling body was gray, stringy, sexless, and almost entirely bald. He only spared enough power to construct the very basics he needed to be able to control his armies. He sunk further into the armor he now wore constantly. He still felt for him as he did ages ago, but there was no way Melkor would want him now when he was so weak and deformed.

“I’ve sent my greatest servants after it. They’ll find the Ring, my Lord, and then I’ll be whole again.”

“Call off the search. There’s no need for the thing, now that I’m here. I will fix your soul,” Melkor’s voice softened and he embraced Sauron again, leaning to whisper into his ear, thick and sweet as blood. “And then you’d be able to create _everything_ your heart desires…”

Moaning with pleasure at the thought, Sauron turned and kissed him, finally closing his blood-shot eyes.

And the mask remained on Melkor’s face as the Mountain erupted one last time, tearing down Barad-dûr and the entire land of Mordor, as the Nazgûl were evaporated, and his troops lost all hope and succumbed to the forces of the West. But inside the Tower it was still warm, and there was no way to tell which mouth the last whispers to be heard before all was lost came from.

“You’re safe.”

“You’re safe.”


End file.
